Nobody knows me and that's ok.

"THOSE DAMN PAPARAZZI!" is a phrase you'll never hear me say.

Remember the kid with the "who the %$#& are YOU?!" face?

There are a few occasions when for whatever reason someone does recognize me and it sounds a little something like this:

"Hey, it's E! You are E right?" (said with a puzzled, she looks like she's 12-years-old/little boy without that make up and stuff, why do they let her do the news? look on their faces).

I prefer that to the alternatives: "Wow, you're a lot smaller than you look on TV!" And from those who don't know who I am, my favorite: "YOU are on the news?!" (note: said with more confusion than excitement).


But on days like today I am thankful for my unmemorable mug.

I just got back from my first half marathon training run with a group and coach.  I felt a bit, oh, out of my league. Every wrist sported a $300 garmin GPS watch and every body part was covered with body glide and nip guards. Spandex, out of control. Oh yeah, and they were speaking German, I think.  (Need to google "fartleks" and "yassos").   I held my own but they all go so fast and as has previously been explained, I sweat like a whore in church, especially when it's  99% humidity and 90 degrees at 6:30 am. Pretty sure I live in the first circle of Hell.

So we're running. I'm sweating.  Pretty standard.  I'm thinking I'm doing pretty good keeping up with these crazy people.  And that's when our coach, who's leading the pack, starts talking about her marathons and her latest in particular (the day I ever discuss marathons... like, in the multiples... somebody smack me and tell me to get off the crazy train).

But I'm listening, intrigued by this psychological disorder that must plague those who run multiple marathons.  And that's when she's all, "Yeah, during the last one, my hip popped out of place during mile 10 and it hurt, but I could handle it.  I ran the last 16 miles and just sucked it up."

DID YOU HEAR ME?!

HER HIP BONE CAME OUT OF ITS SOCKET PEOPLE.

and... THAT WAS OK?!

The first thing I thought of was how I don't like to shower after getting a paper cut 'cuz it stings real bad when the soap hits it.

So back to my point.

Next week when I'm writhing in pain and look like a drowned rat after sweating out a 10 mile run... when I stop halfway begging for mercy, it'll be nice knowing that it doesn't matter.  I can look like road kill and sound like a wimp, and it won't be any different than when I'm reading magazines in the grocery store checkout line, putting them back moments before checkout, while wearing my pajamas.

I can be a loser without anybody noticing.

Nobody knows me.  And I like it.